It had been delicious, at least, the one or two mouthfuls she had tried had been out of this world, but she had found it impossible to actually swallow more than a couple of bites. Her stomach had been churning so wildly, her head throbbing, and a feeling as if a hundred thousand butterflies were dancing along her veins had made it almost impossible to try and sit still.
And matters had been made so much worse by the way that Santos had insisted that she sit beside him. Right next to him in the seat that should have been his bride’s place. Instead of which it had been his bride’s sister who had taken that seat, looking totally out of place in the unaccustomed finery of her bridesmaid’s dress, with her hair already starting to escape from the over-elaborate style that Petra had insisted on.
‘What am I doing here?’ Alexa murmured to herself as she paused by one of the huge French windows that opened out onto a wide stone balcony overlooking the huge grounds, staring out at the sweeping slope that led to the woods on one side and the enormous rectangular swimming pool on the other.
Right now the blue water sparkled beautifully in the sun, making her think longingly of pulling off her clothes and plunging into its cool depths. Or at the very least kicking off the elegant shoes that were crippling her and dangling her feet over the edge, letting the water ease the aches and the raw spots where the narrow straps had rubbed too much.
‘So this is where you’re hiding yourself …’
The deep, accented male voice pulled her out of her reflections, bringing her back into reality in the space of a heartbeat. She had only heard—what?—a few thousand words spoken in that voice this afternoon on top of little more than a hundred on the night they had first met, but she knew that for ever onwards she would always recognise it, only needing to hear a couple of syllables in that rich, deep timbre, that sexy accent, and she would know instantly who was behind her.
‘I’m not hiding. After all, nobody wants to see me. Just taking a breather.’
Deliberately she kept her gaze fixed on the scene beyond the window. She didn’t want to look into Santos’s face, knowing that would only scramble the thoughts that she was fighting so hard to clear. Besides, she had faced him all the way here, studied that shockingly handsome face close up, tried to read just what was going on behind those amazing eyes, the lush black lashes, tried to judge his mood from the tone of every word he spoke—and she had failed miserably. Whatever was going on in his mind, he was hiding it from her without any effort. Everything he said, every gesture, every expression that crossed his face gave away nothing at all.
‘And trying to work out what the hell I’m doing here.’
‘You’re here as my guest—like everyone else.’
‘A guest at a reception for a wedding that never was. It seems a weird thing to be celebrating.’
‘You don’t think that it’s a practical solution to a possible problem? I had no intention of wasting the money I’d paid out for this.’
‘You paid for the reception?’ It had confused her from the start. She had wondered too why the marriage was to take place in Spain, but Natalie had said that Santos had insisted on it. ‘But why?’
‘Your father could not afford to do things the way that your stepmother wanted—I could.’
It was blunt and matter-of-fact, but surprisingly without the note of dark cynicism she might have expected. And somehow that worried her more. She knew that her stepmother had extravagant tastes, and it had been obvious lately that her father was struggling to indulge her in the way he had once done.
‘And I intended that my bride should have only the best.’
Which was a stiletto-sharp dig that made her wince. Santos might have declared that he didn’t give a damn that Natalie had walked out on him, and yet he was a man who had been prepared to spend heavily to make sure that she had a wedding day to be proud of. It didn’t quite add up.
‘You’ve been very generous.’
Santos shrugged off her attempt at thanks.
‘If I had not invited everyone back here, I would have been overwhelmed with expensive food and wine with no one to help me deal with it. And not everyone ate as little as you did.’
So he had noticed the way that she had simply pushed her food around on her plate and hadn’t been able to force herself to choke much of it down. The feeling of having been watched so closely, of his noting everything she did, was unnerving, making her shift uneasily from one foot to the other.
Behind her, his tall, powerful figure was reflected in the glass of the window as evening darkened the grounds, and, in spite of the fact that in her three inch heels she almost matched him in height, she still felt that he dwarfed her, towering over her where she stood. He had discarded his elegant jacket and the cutaway armholes of the silk waistcoat emphasised the power of his arms, the width of the broad, straight shoulders.
‘Was the food not to your taste?’
‘It wasn’t that, I didn’t like the feeling of being watched—being on show. I felt as if everyone was staring—wondering just why I was there.’
‘Who gives a damn what anyone else thinks?’
Not him, obviously, his tone said.
She couldn’t continue this conversation without looking at him and so she forced herself to spin round on her heel until she was facing him, looking up into that dark, stunning face.
Not that it helped her in any way. If she had thought that his expression was closed and shuttered against her in the car on the journey here when he had hardly spoken a single word all the way, then it was even more sealed off from her now.
Anyone watching them would simply see polite attention, the natural courtesy of a considerate host to one of his guests, stamped onto the beautifully carved profile, faintly curving the beautiful shape of his sensual mouth. But facing him head-on, Alexa couldn’t be unaware of the total control he was imposing over every feature, every expression.
His eyes were so hooded they were almost half-closed, giving him a sleepily sensual look that had the most devastating effect on her heart rate, making it thud slow and heavy until she heard its echoes deep inside her head. But beneath those heavy lids, sleepy was the last thing the burnished eyes actually were. They gleamed with sharp intent as he watched each move she made, followed every tiny gesture, every revealing twitch of a muscle.
‘And you needed to avoid the paparazzi,’ Santos continued. ‘I gave you a way to do that.’
‘I’m grateful.’
Her voice shook slightly with the memory of the pack of reporters who had been waiting outside the church, as close to the grounds as the heavy ring of security would let them get. Shielded by Santos’s large frame, hurried into the sleek limousine, hidden behind the smoked-glass windows, she had still been aware of the size of the crowd, the loud buzz of interest, the shouted questions. The cameras had flashed wildly too until she had felt as if she were in the middle of some dramatic firework display and she huddled in the back of the car, cowering away from the windows.
‘And so, I’m sure, are my father and stepmother.’
She’d only seen them once since they had arrived at Santos’s beautiful home. Her father had been supporting her mother, helping her into a seat, fetching her a brandy, though the truth was that he looked fit to drop himself. Natalie’s defection had hit them both hard and for that reason she had to be grateful to Santos for the way he had taken action.
‘Protecting us from the Press might have been the start to it but there was more to it than that.’
‘You think so?’
The lift of an arching black brow questioned her statement, sending a rush of hot blood into her face. She always felt as if she was on the wrong foot with this man. From the moment that she had arrived at the church to tell him that the wedding was off, he had never once reacted in the way that she had anticipated. Once again she felt as if the ground beneath her feet was shifting dangerously.
What makes you think that you matter enough for that? the look in his eyes said.
‘Well, there has to be more, or none of this makes any sense.’
‘You’re here because I want you here,’ Santos inserted smoothly. ‘And that is all that matters.’
‘And you always get what you want?’
He didn’t actually answer her question verbally. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes, the slight inclination of his head, told her all that she needed to know. But the dangerous thing was the reaction that she couldn’t quite control. The sudden fizz of excitement that bubbled up inside her at his words. The quiver of delight at the thought that he would actually describe her as someone he wanted here with him. Someone for whom he was prepared to scheme and manoeuvre in order to get her into his home.
Things like that didn’t happen to her. Men like Santos didn’t happen to her. Not to home-loving librarians with no figure to speak of and mousy, ruler-straight hair. They happened to girls like Natalie. To petite, blonde-bombshell party girls with stunning figures and blue, blue eyes.
‘You seem to have recovered remarkably well,’ she declared suddenly, needing to cover her own confusion with a challenge that sounded overly aggressive because of the uncomfortable thoughts behind it. ‘I can’t imagine anyone else who has so recently been jilted at the altar being such an affable host.’
‘You’d expect me to have collapsed on the church steps, weeping?’ Santos enquired sardonically. The flashing look from those brilliant eyes told her just how far off the mark she was if she did.
‘But if you wanted to marry her—if you loved her …’
‘Love?’
It was a sharp, cynical laugh, one that was so cold and mocking that it made Alexa flinch back against the wall, away from its savagery.
‘I don’t believe in love. Never have. Never will.’
‘Then why were you going to marry Natalie?’
This time his eyes narrowed so sharply that they were just glinting slits in his face, a dark frown drawing his black brows together. Alexa suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that she was like some small, defenceless butterfly, laid out on a microscope slide, ready for dissection.
‘It was what your sister wanted. She wanted it and it suited me. There was nothing like love involved.’
‘You were going to marry my sister just.’ Alexa began angrily but then the words faded from her tongue as she fully registered the impact of the second thing he had said. ‘No … she wouldn’t!’
She shook her head so violently that another few strands of her hair escaped from the pins securing them in ornate curls on her scalp and flew out around her head.
‘Why so indignant, belleza?’ Santos questioned softly. ‘Surely you knew?’
‘Well, yes …’
Natalie had admitted that she didn’t love Santos, and now he had made it plain that he hadn’t loved her either—so what had her sister been planning to be? Merely a trophy wife? Was even el brigante capable of such cold-blooded machinations?
Santos caught hold of her chin in hard fingers and held it, stilling her uneasy movement. The way he tilted her face up to his forced her to look deep into his eyes. Locking with the darkened gaze that burned down into hers.
‘Why does that shock you so much? Many people marry for convenience—for dynastic reasons.’
‘Older families, maybe—in other countries. Or people who need the money. But not people like you—you don’t …’
Horrified, she caught herself up sharply, almost biting down on her tongue in her haste to have the foolish, revealing words silenced. What was she thinking of? What had she come so very close to saying—and so giving herself away?
‘People like me don’t what?’ Santos asked, the very softness of the question revealing just how dangerous it really was. ‘What were you about to say, Alexa—hmm?’
‘Well—you don’t need any money, do you? You’re rolling in the stuff—disgustingly so.’
That made those heavy, arched brows shoot up in a way that made her stomach twist uncomfortably. She knew she had spoken rashly, over-emphatically, but she had been trying to conceal the true path her thoughts were following, which was that a man like Santos, someone who was so stunningly good-looking, so wealthy, so successful, would never need to buy a wife or to enter into any sort of a marriage of convenience. He would only have to crook his little finger and women would be lining up outside his door.
And would she be one of them? Her mind skittered away from even considering that question, never mind answering it. It was just too risky to what little was left of her composure.
‘Disgustingly?’ Santos echoed, an odd note creeping into his voice. ‘You don’t approve of my wealth?’
‘Not when you use it to take over other people’s lives.’
‘Your sister was not “taken over …”’
Folding his arms across his broad chest, Santos leaned back against the wall and subjected her to a slow, sweeping survey, the narrowed eyes moving from the top of her head right down to where her feet still ached inside the tight, elegant shoes. Lingering for a second, his gaze then swept swiftly back up to her face and the flame in his eyes was not one of appreciation but a cold, burning anger that made her flinch deep inside.
‘She knew very well what she was going to get out of it.’
And perhaps, at first, that had seemed enough, Alexa acknowledged. Thinking back over the way that Natalie had looked, the things she’d said, she had to admit that Nat had been excited by the idea of marrying Santos—at least at the beginning. She’d loved being seen on his arm, appearing in all the gossip magazines. It was only later, when she’d met this new man, that things had changed.
‘And what about you? What did you get out of it?’
‘I wanted a wife. Legal heirs to inherit all I’ve worked for.’
‘There are other ways …’
This time the flashing glance that seared over her practically sizzled with contempt. She couldn’t have said anything more stupid, anything he would believe in less, his expression said.
‘If you’re thinking love and romance and happily ever after then forget it. I told you, I don’t believe in love.’
‘Why not?’
‘It does not exist.’
It was the coldest, most definite statement possible and one that left her in no possible doubt that she would be foolish to try and argue him out of his stance. She might as well bang her head hard against the stone wall that surrounded the terrace, leading to the curving steps down to the swimming pool. But she was so appalled at the black cynicism of his tone, the opaque appearance of his eyes, as if he had shut himself off from her, that shock and disbelief pushed unthinking words from her mouth.
‘And so you bought yourself a wife.’
‘No,’ Santos drawled cynically. ‘I did not buy …’
‘What else would you call it?’
‘I would not call it anything, señorita. Nothing at all. Because, if you remember, I did not end up with a wife at all. My fiancée did not keep her promise.’
The pointed reminder was guaranteed to close Alexa’s throat completely, choking off any words she might have managed. He was right, of course, whatever their arrangement had been, Natalie had broken her promise to him. A terrible thought crossed her mind. Was it possible that he was angry enough to sue for breach of promise?
‘And I did not just want a wife—there was more to it than that.’
‘How? What else did you want?’
‘A union with a respectable, dynastic family name. You’ve heard the nickname,’ Santos added when she looked at him askance, a frown of doubt creasing the space between her brows.
‘El brigante?’
A curt nod of his dark head acknowledged that she was right.
‘It is not used as a compliment.’
‘And that matters to you?’
She couldn’t believe it. He seemed so indomitable, so unconcerned by anyone else’s opinion.
‘I don’t give a damn,’ he confirmed her suspicions. ‘Bu
t I do not want my children to have to fight for their place in society as I have done. With your sister as their mother—with her family name linked to theirs—even the most conservative, most prejudiced types would have had to accept them.’
There was a bitterness in his tone that made his words ring with a harsh truth. There was no need for him to explain the prejudice he had had to live with. It was there in his voice, in the darkness of his eyes; so sharp and savage that she winced inside to hear it and the thought of what was behind it.
‘I can only apologise.’
Her voice trailed away as Santos lifted broad shoulders in a shrug that expressed total indifference without any need of words. But the indifferent gesture didn’t match with the dark ice in his eyes, the freezing glare that seemed to burn right through to the bone.
‘You think an apology will suffice?’
‘I think it would at least be—polite.’
‘Ah yes, and the English, they are always so very polite. That of course makes everything right.’
‘I never said that!’ Alexa protested, flinching away from his black cynicism. ‘But would it have been any better if Natalie had told you herself?’
‘Is that what you would have done, hmm?’ Santos questioned with a deadly softness that made Alexa shiver involuntarily as she caught the venom that threaded through it. ‘Would you have come to me yourself? Would you have told me the truth, I wonder? Or would you have done what your sister has done and fled the country rather than face me?’
Right now, she could quite understand why Natalie had behaved as she had, Alexa told herself. Just at this moment she could imagine that she would do anything, go anywhere rather than face him. He didn’t raise his voice or put any force into his words. He didn’t need to. The barely reined-in anger was there in the bite of his words, contrasting with the unbelievable gentleness of his delivery. A gentleness that was somehow so much more forceful than if he had shouted.
‘Natalie did what she had to do,’ she managed, fighting to keep the tension she was feeling from showing in her voice. If Santos spotted any sign of weakness in her then he would be quick to take advantage of it, and she was determined to give him as little opportunity to do so as she could.
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